


and love for a fall

by milominderbinder



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:23:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milominderbinder/pseuds/milominderbinder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey, in the neon streetlamp-light, is something to look at. He could be a living metaphor, something from a storybook far too good to be true - haloed in darkness but his face lit up in certain pinpoint places, the bright-hot orange tip of the joint dangling between his lips, the sparkle in his too-blue eyes as he listens to Ian’s laughter, the light reflecting off the sweat that paints his brow or the damp patch where he keeps flicking his tongue against his upper lip. This time of year it’s hot even at night, and grubby Mickey Milkovich seems to blend seamlessly with their surroundings, the sweltering, all-consuming dirtiness and strange warm-coloured air that they call home.</p><p>In that moment, Ian wants nothing more than to kiss him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and love for a fall

**Author's Note:**

> for a prompt from greekgeek4: _Ian and Mickey kissing after their first kiss but before 306._ Title from 'Spit it out' by IAMX because I'm incapable of writing my own titles.
> 
> also posted to my tumblr, [mickeymilk](http://mickeymilk.tumblr.com).

So, skipping past their history, skipping past their pretty epic tale and all the shit that’s gone down and all the times they’ve both called themselves done with the whole thing, both walked away and ended up looking back - skipping past all that, we jump in the middle, when there’s a day, an unusual as fuck day, where Mickey Milkovich and Ian Gallagher share their first kiss.

It means a lot, maybe to both of them, maybe more to Mickey, in a way. Ian’s shocked, when it happens, but he processes it pretty quickly, he thinks. Is able to speak and function again by the time Mickey and his cousins come out to the van with the first load of stolen shit. And Ian he’s smart enough to know not to expect it all the time, to probably not expect it until another extenuating circumstance if at all, but still - just that one time was enough to mean something. That one too-quick press of Mickey’s lips against his meant a whole fucking lot, and Ian doesn’t need more than that, for a while.

Okay, doesn’t need more, maybe. But he _wants_  more, oh boy does he want.

And the thing is - even after all these years, sometimes, Ian can’t resist the things he wants.

So it next happens one of those times they’re hanging out. Those times Ian would’ve used to call ‘rare’ but which are getting more and more common these days. It’s night, and they’re getting high and drunk and generally misbehaving in the baseball dugout.  They haven’t fucked, yet, like they’re prone to starting their evenings with. Ian has no doubt that’s what they’re leading up to, but for the minute, it’s nice, just sitting there sipping on their beers, sharing a joint, laughing about all the dumb shit that usually gets them down.

Mickey, in the neon streetlamp-light, is something to look at. He could be a living metaphor, something from a storybook far too good to be true - haloed in darkness but his face lit up by certain pinpoint places, the bright-hot orange tip of the joint dangling between his lips, the sparkle in his too-blue eyes as he listens to Ian’s joking, the light reflecting off the sweat that paints his brow or the damp patch where he keeps flicking his tongue against his upper lip. This time of year it’s hot even at night, and grubby Mickey Milkovich seems to blend seamlessly with their surroundings, the sweltering, all-consuming dirtiness and strange warm-coloured air that they call home.

They’re talking about nothing in particular, and there’s not a moment, there’s just a culmination where all of a sudden Ian can’t  _help_  it. With his whole damn life of trying to control every little thing about himself, of having to control everything about himself just to save from getting fucking killed, this is a time when he just can’t  _help_  it.

He leans over, and Mickey’s lips are so, so close.

Mickey’s not moving away, and he’s not saying anything, stopped in the middle of a sentence which is a rare thing for him. He’s not threatening to cut out Ian’s tongue if he even thinks about it - and really, it must be so, so obvious what Ian’s about to do. Mickey doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. His breathing seems a little heavier. The joint is dangling, loose and forgotten, between his fingers, that bright-hot point of light against the darkness now forgotten at his side. There are other points of light, now, only they all seem to be inside Ian’s body, too hot and fighting to get out.

The longing in Ian’s stomach is too much. It sends a deep wanting through every inch of his body; his heart speeds up, his mouth is dry. And in a move so simple that it should seem anticlimactic - he closes that extra inch of useless air, and presses his mouth to Mickey’s.

For a moment, they’re frozen.

Frozen, except Ian is so, so hot, feels like his whole body is on edge with useless energy, so the freezing doesn’t last long. And maybe Mickey’s feeling it too because it’s the same moment that they both move, that their bodies move a thousand ways at once, all frantic and desperate and fast, like they don’t know how much time they’ll have, like they’re fighting against the clock and desperate to win. Mickey’s teeth bite down on the edge of Ian’s lip, gently, and their mouths press together  _hard_ , and their awkward hands are fumbling to grab at each others hips or shoulders, to push their bodies as close together as they can, legs tangling together, sweat-sticky chests colliding.

One of Mickey’s hands has a grip on Ian’s hip that he knows is tight enough to bruise. As their mouths move more fiercely together, it clenches in Ian’s t-shirt, pushes it up, grabs onto bare skin instead, fingernails digging in a way that’s so far from gentle. Ian moans low into Mickey’s lips, can’t help it, and Mickey draws in short, rapid breaths, sucking the air straight out of Ian’s mouth. The heat of the night surrounds them, the strange eerie silence cut through only by their grunts and pants and low, broken sounds which stop in both their throats. It’s strange, not tranquil, not calm, and in a way the silence arounds them just makes it all so, so much more intense. All of Ian’s nerves are lit up like they’re open wounds, and he doesn’t even mind that Mickey’s pressing into them, messing him up, scarring him in ways nobody else will be able to see. He sucks Mickey’s bottom lip, and pretends not to notice the hopeless sound that trembles out of Mickey’s mouth, the way he can feel Mickey hardening against his leg. This isn’t about that.

The kiss seems to have an endless pulse. It’s alive and it’s a rhythm, it’s Ian’s body rocking towards Mickey’s over and over again, rolling away again in the same motion, the smooth hot glorious sensations crashing over him in waves. Their mouths are a tide, and it’s driving Ian crazy.

Ian doesn’t lose track of time. It’s not one of those things which could be seconds or days or anything inbetween with no way to tell; Ian is savouring every drop of it and he knows it’s something as small as a few minutes that they go on for. Eventually, Ian slips his hand into the back of Mickey’s jeans, and Mickey breaks away.  His lips are shining damp from Ian’s tongue and his cheeks are flushed red and his hair is sticking up at the back, and there’s a deepness to his breath, a near panting sound of shock. He stares into Ian’s eyes, for one long moment, and Ian knows it’s something new because Mickey never holds eye contact for more than a second, the nervousness in his soul makes him twitch away always before it could  _mean_  something. He looks like he didn’t know kissing could be that way.

Ian didn’t really know it either, to be honest.

When the moment has grown too long and far too real for the both of them, Mickey smiles just a little, clears his throat in that oh-so-obvious way he has, asks “You gonna fuck me now or what?”

Ian obliges, and they kiss again, after. A short hard peck of their lips, less than even the first time.

It’s enough to send Ian home on shaking knees.


End file.
